sentence: a journal of prose poetics #9

Two Agents

We’re nothing but a dream of polar magnets, little ghost. Curtains could be painted or suddenly real. Brezhnev is coming, a minor detail clinking to his belt, a tugboat with trailer lights, our widemouth jar of spacedust. Not Hölderlin enough? Even dogs can’t live forever in imitation sunlight. Surrounded by flares, we knew to set aside our spines, lisping out absinthe, looking for our coats. (Elizabeth Willis)

I seem to have missed the previous issue, but good to see the new volume of sentence:a journal of prose poetics, the first by incoming editor Brian Johnson, replacing founding editor Brian Clements. Originally founded to “continue the tradition of publishing excellent prose poems established by Peter Johnson’s The Prose Poem: an International Journal,” sentence (as Johnson’s “Foreword” writes) works to “foster the Protean vitality of the prose poem.” 

This issue features a section titled “Abstraction and the Prose Poem,” guest-edited by Richard Deming, which (as Johnson writes) “brings together an impressive range of poets working in and around the conventions of the prose poem, trying to extend both the medium and its messages.” 

I’m intrigued by the notions of what Johnson considers the “conventions” of the prose poem, as I’ve noticed much of the American variant on the form far more prosaic (a la Russell Edson) than the Canadian one (a la Robert Kroetsch). 

What are the conventions? Where do the differences begin?

The lost (the

drowning the fata morgana) is a lonely word poling its way from one mouth to another. As if pregnant as if to breed tongues but then hangs in the air like a fist of cloud the size of a pea. It is sad that the everything between burned down and it is sad that the everything between did not burn completely but only partly with most of it exposed and now the what’s left lodging into the corners that are no longer there. And only the face left floating in the corners. Words are lonely boats and the mouth has to launch one word at a time maybe this. (Jeanne Stauffer-Merle)

Part of the ability of the prose-poem is to exist entirely in that open space between what is considered “poem” and “prose,” leaving a pretty vast and wide spectrum of structural options, a number of which appears quite readily in the pages of sentence: a journal of prose poetics. With pieces by Paige Taggert, Aaron Shurin, Tom Dickinson and many others, the special “abstraction” feature is, to my mind, far more striking, with pieces by Julie Carr, Peter Gizzi, Charles Bernstein, Matthew Cooperman, Susan Briante, Andrew Zawacki, John Ashbery, Rosmarie Waldrop, Ron Padgett and many more. Bernstein’s pieces are memorable for how well he manages to tear prose-poem sentences apart, whether literally or simply spaced around the page, and still manage to have them considered prose poems.

Unready, Unwilling, Unable

Peerlessly literal,

We’re a little nearer than we were.

There is nothing I would rather see

than an angel dancing on a rhyme

or a unicorn playing Phaedra.

I love humanity; it’s people I can’t bear.

I am a Jewish man trapped

in the body of a Jewish man.

I love people;

humanity scares me.

If nothing is translatable, then

everything is.

Scars me. (Charles Bernstein)

The issue concludes with a handful of book reviews, which extend a further and essential engagement with the prose poem form. Still, I keep hoping to see Lea Graham in here, with one or two of those magnificent epistolary poems she’s been writing lately, in her “Dear Robert Kroetsch” series. Perhaps by issue #10.

Chinese New Year in Illinois

I won’t light a firecracker or take part in the ritual to dust the rafter, sweep eaves, or hang scrolls of red carp and fat boy in grandma’s tangwu. Her house is empty. There will be no reunion this year as she migrates to the world of yin and I move, from the Middle Kingdom to the Midwest. The lantern of childhood still burns my eyes. I pull out my one Sichuanese recipe book and begin to read. I read into night, past time and winter until I see wind-dried sausages lit by red pepper, blood oranges glow on bare boughs. I read so attentively I could be studying the composition of poetry or alchemy. There is no hunger like this, no such longing. (Jie Tian)

A brief note on (reading, writing) short fiction,

Thirty-two years old, she managed the impossible: an unbroken length of apple peel, fit for the shoulder toss. She remembered the chorus her grandmother sang, trilling peel, peel, please reveal. She tossed, and once it touched tile she turned, less a letter than line, with ambient twirl. Years earlier, she remembered high school-era gifts from her favourite aunt including a Michael Ondaatje signature, an autographed copy of The Cinnamon Peeler: Selected Poems and his novel, The English Patient. The film had resonated, deep in her bones. And now, this red delicious signature apple-inked on her floor. The cinnamon-spice blush on her blue jeans.

I've been working on a collection of short stories for nearly three years, carving little narratives down as sharp as I can. I cut my fingers. Blood mixes in with my lines.

During my high school years, I attempted similarly-short stories, continuing for a couple more years after I arrived in the city. There was even an entertainment bi-weekly that published a few of them, until it folded in 1994. The last four months of Ottawa's Metro magazine included one of my stories in every second issue. By the end, I was composing new short fiction just to see if they'd appear.

There are a few ways I have come to these conclusions. In my early twenties, reading short stories and the accumulations of Richard Brautigan novels. Canadian writers such as Sheila Watson, Elizabeth Smart, Michael Ondaatje. That pointed brevity. I'm more attracted to stories that stop just before they end. Is it fair or reductive to suggest this comes from years of writing poems? I want no wasted words. Is this from years of composing reviews? When exactly to do you get to the point?

Just how much does a story require to contain a story? I continue to send mine out, only to have them rejected. I never exactly know why, although I have a number of theories that are only theories. I don't know where to send them.

The current project of short stories triggered when I read the short, sharp stories of Sarah Manguso [see my piece on her here], her Hard to Admit and Harder to Escape (San Francisco CA: McSweeney's Books, 2007). Part of the appeal of her stories was in the construction of the collection of untitled short pieces; was this a straight collection of short stories, or a loose and abstract narrative built as an accumulation into a novel? Through Manguso, I became fascinated by the blur, and the distinction.

From Manguso, furthering to some lovely prose experiments in sentence: a journal of prose poetics to New York City writer Deb Olin Unferth, and finally tracking some of Unferth and Manguso's influences back over the past few weeks to another American writer, Lydia Davis, through her seven hundred plus page The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis (Picador, 2009), which includes this little gem:

Samuel Johnson Is Indignant:

that Scotland has so few trees.

What did I tell you? Do stories require long, complicated narratives? Do we even need to know such extraneous bits as hair colour, clothes, cities, gender, the colour of their skin? Only when essential, only if the story requires. What do we know of Samuel Johnson? Is that important? Where the hell is she sending her stories? What exactly am I here to tell you?

Apart from discovering Davis, more recently I've been introduced to the work of Israeli writer Etgar Keret, through his collection of short stories, The Girl on the Fridge (New York NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008). How enviable, to be this damned sharp. To say so much in so little.

In my fiction, I am working on writing big stories in small spaces. Small novels, even smaller stories, and all written in dense, packed prose. Patience, breathing. Carve, slowly. Carve further, even slower. Pause. Listen.

Asthma Attack

When you have an asthma attack, you can't breathe. When you can't breathe, you can hardly talk. To make a sentence all you get is the air in your lungs. Which isn't much. Three to six words, if that. You learn the value of words. You rummage through the jumble in your head. Choose the crucial ones--those cost you too. Let healthy people toss out whatever comes to mind, the way you throw out the garbage. When an asthmatic says, "I love you," and when an asthmatic says, "I love you madly," there's a difference. The difference of a word. A word's a lot. It could be stop, or inhaler. It could even be ambulance.

As any artist knows, your art should move only and exactly where your interest does, which can, theoretically, lead anywhere and everywhere. Some things can't be forced, and false roads quickly identify themselves. But one is constantly forced to ask, to reassess, is it even working?

He refers to it as his collected wisdom, all the shards of information he’s picked up, collated, held in trust to punctuate conversation so as to appear more interesting than he really is. Catherine the Great’s love of horses, conjoined twins from the 1890s concurrently pregnant from their physician, the air speed ratio of an unladen swallow.

12 or 20 (small press) questions: Brian Clements on Firewheel Editions/sentence magazine

Firewheel Editions publishes books and chapbooks of poetry, prose poetry, cross-genre writing, and other hard-to-classify projects. Firewheel also publishes Sentence: a Journal of Prose Poetics, which is devoted to the prose poem and to the gray areas around the prose poem, especially in work that exists on the boundary between prose poem and free verse on one hand and the prose poem and the essay on the other. In early 2011, Firewheel will launch Kugelmass, a journal of literary humor.

Brian Clements edits Firewheel Editions and Firewheel's flagship publication Sentence. His most recent books are An Introduction to the Prose Poem (anthology from Firewheel), And How to End It (prose poems from Quale Press), and Disappointed Psalms (poems from Meritage Press). He coordinates the MFA in Creative and Professional Writing at Western Connecticut State University.

1 - When did Firewheel Editions and sentence magazine first start? How have your original goals as a publisher shifted since you started, if at all? And what have you learned through the process?

Firewheel first started in the mid-late 90's in Dallas. My friend Joe Ahearn and I had gotten the idea into our heads that an anthology of Texas writing would sell well in Texas, so we published the first Best Texas Writing under Joe's imprint, Rancho Loco Press. We turned out to be wrong, of course; apparently people in Texas love all things Texan except Texan writing. Joe threw in the towel after the first volume; I wanted to give it another shot, so I set up Firewheel Editions (which was named after the section of Garland, TX, where I lived at the time) to publish a second volume of Best Unwanted Texas Writing, and I expanded the scope a bit to also publish chapbooks. I did a great little collection by Kristin Ryling of her wonderously strange poems on loose leaf pages wrapped in rice paper. I still have a number of copies of that signed and numbered production. I loved publishing Kristin's work, which has some points of contact with some of my own work, though they may not be immediately apparent; I caught the bug then for publishing work that for one reason or another--style, typography, scope, content, whatever--is difficult to place for publication or that in some way pushes normal expectations of a book.
Sentence started a few years later to fill the void left by the closure of Peter Johnson's The Prose Poem: an International Journal. Peter was very kind to serve as a Contributing Editor and to lend me a lot of advice and contacts which made the launch of Sentence go more smoothly and successfully than I could have hoped it would.

The goals of Firewheel have remained pretty consistent. I still am interested in publishing authors and texts who have a hard time finding publication elsewhere, for whatever reason. I would like to be able to do a lot more books than I currently have time to do, and Kugelmass will take up a lot of attention in the coming year.

What have I learned? I have learned that the time and effort that you put into training interns is greater than the value of having interns on staff. I need to find some folks who are interested in the mission of Firewheel and Sentence and who are interested in volunteering their time.

2 - What first brought you to publishing?

An aversion to publishing. The whole generally accepted notion of what publishing is, what it means, what it does, is for the most part totally out of line with the actual function of most of the publishing that goes on in poetry. In the US, at least, poetry publishing is not about reaching large audiences or becoming a part of the general culture--that happens sometimes, but rarely, and hardly anyone ever goes into poetry publishing for that reason and succeeds. The publication of poetry is an exercise in recording a number of small conversations that are going on simultaneously. Most poets are aware of the conversation they want to be in on, and have inserted themselves into poetry communities where they are able to engage in that conversation with other folks they know are interested in that conversation. Publishers do what they do not in order to make money, but as a way of participating in the conversation, just like the poets (indeed, the publishers tend to be poets). This is why all of the "What's Wrong with Poetry" critics are entirely off base from the beginning when they argue that poets only write for other poets. They have this assumption that the real poetry market is a commercial market that includes Garrison Keillor and is attached in a direct line to Robert Frost--their proof is that the public doesn't read poetry, as though sales and popularity were the measure of an entire genre. That market is just the shadow of some imagined Golden Age created by the New Critics and handed down to school children for almost a century via the vehicle of high school (and college) English teachers. In reality, poetry isn't a commercial market, it's just a conversation that we're having with ourselves and with our culture, with our language. We don't publish to reach the public; we publish to reach those who are genuinely interested in the conversation.

3- What do you consider the role and responsibilities, if any, of small publishing?

See #2.

4- What do you see your press doing that no one else is?

The highlighting of prose poetry, mostly. I think with our books and chapbooks we probably hit a “crossover” market that not many people are doing. There are journals and presses out there that claim to sit on the fence between the mainstream (whatever that may be) and outside the mainstream, but I’m not sure they actually do that. They actually end up publishing work from outside the mainstream that is able to work well by using a mix of traditional and experimental techniques. Firewheel also, I think, does a good job of matching book content to book form—but I think there are a lot of small presses out there doing good work in that area.

5 - What do you see as the most effective way to get new publications out into the world?

If by the “most effective” you mean the most efficient, then it would probably to be by distributing .pdf files readable on computers and handhelds for free. Firewheel is about to move into doing e-books, but they wont’ be free.

6- How involved an editor are you? Do you dig deep into line edits, or do you prefer more of a light touch?

I only propose edits when I think a piece is 95% there in terms of readiness for publication and only needs a little touching up. Otherwise, I will have a frank discussion with the poet on what I think needs to be done only if it’s something I think will be right for us in the end and only if the poet expresses interest in having that discussion. I think that’s probably the way most small press/journal editors approach it.

7 - How do your books get distributed, and the journal? What are your usual print runs?

We’re going into POD now, so won’t have traditional print runs. We distribute online through our own website, via Small Press Distribution, via EBSCO, and via Amazon.

8- How many other people are involved with editing or production? Do you work with other editors, and if so, how effective do you find it? What are the benefits, drawbacks?

I have been the lone editor of Sentence for the first 8 issues, but I’m about to turn the editing of the journal over to Brian Johnson. Ellen McGrath Smith has been a great addition to the Sentence staff as Reviews Editor for the last couple of issues. David Holub will be editing Kugelmass, and I will be focusing more on Firewheel’s book publishing. So, since the Texas anthologies that Joe and I edited, I’ve never really been in a situation where I’ve had to share editorial duties with anyone, and that’s probably for the best. I think multiple editor situations usually end up in a selection for the middle that can rip the power out of a publication’s editorial vision.

9 - How has being an editor/publisher changed the way you think about your own writing?

It probably has helped me to become less concerned with publication, which can only be a good thing for the writing. I realize, in a way that I wouldn’t have before I started Sentence, that the conversation is what’s most important, and there are many, many voices and audiences available for conversation.

10 - How do you approach the idea of publishing your own writing? Some, such as Gary Geddes when he still ran Cormorant, refused such, yet various Coach House Books' editors had titles during their tenures as editors for the press, including Victor Coleman and bpNichol. What do you think of the arguments for or against, or do you see the whole question as irrelevant?

I made it a policy never to publish my own poems in Sentence because I did not want anyone to see the journal as a vehicle for me to promote myself. I did write reviews for the journal early in its development, which I see as a significant difference from publishing one’s own poems. I would not publish a book of my own poems with Firewheel, but I did publish an anthology that I edited,An Introduction to the Prose Poem, which, again, I see as a significant distinction from publishing one’s own poems. The anthology is designed as a textbook, and I think it’s a significant contribution to the field, so I see it as a kind of service publication. I like the idea of the cooperative press, where the editors publish their own work but also publish the work of others outside the cooperative.

11 - How do you see the press evolving? How do you see the journal evolving? Do you see them as separate?

The future of Sentence is directly connected to the future of Firewheel, and I hope Sentence continues to thrive well into the distant future. It certainly will change, perhaps in subtle ways, under Brian Johnson’s editorship. We will continue to offer the Sentence Book Award. My goal right now is to help launch Kugelmass and to develop Firewheel’s list of poetry titles, including moving into e-books.

12 - What, as a publisher, are you most proud of accomplishing? What do you think people have overlooked about your publications? What is your biggest frustration?

I don’t really have many frustrations regarding the press, other than the fact that I haven’t been able to release as many books as I had hoped by this point and that I haven’t been able to devote any time at all, really, to soliciting grants, which certainly would have helped with producing more books. I’m proud that we were able to publish a few truly excellent titles—especially Denise Duhamel’s Mille et un sentiments, the anthology, and Catherine Sasanov’s Had Slaves. I’m proud that Sentence has had many poems anthologized in Best American Poetry and Best New Poets. I’m extremely proud of the quality of work that Sentence has maintained, the quality of the special feature sections in Sentence, and the fact that the journal has come to be recognized as a significant contribution to the study of prose poetry.

13 - Who were your early publishing models when starting out?

Really liked the look and feel of Jubilat, so we modeled our look on it partially. Peter Johnson’s The Prose Poem: an International Journal, of course, was Sentence’s immediate precursor, and Sentence would not exist if it weren’t for that journal’s existence (and demise).

14 - How do the press and journal work to engage with your immediate literary community, and community at large? What journals or presses do you see your publications in dialogue with? How important do you see those dialogues, those conversations?

If by “immediate” you mean “local”, then hardly at all. We live in a part of Connecticut where most literary attention is directed toward New York and no local literary community to speak of has risen. The university (Western Connecticut) is greatly supportive of the journal and press, though. Most of Sentence’s connections have been internationally widespread, and I think that’s appropriate. The international representation in the pages of the journal certainly has been big part of Sentence’s success. When we first started, there was probably more interest in the prose poem abroad than in the US. That may not be the case now. I think Sentence is in dialogue with Quarter After Eight, Double Room, Quick Fiction, most directly, because of their scopes.

15 - Do you hold regular or occasional readings or launches? How important do you see public readings and other events?

We have done from time to time. They aren’t great sales generators, but they’re important in terms of spreading word of mouth about the journal. We’ve been particularly successful with that sort of event at a couple of conferences—AWP, ALTA. We’ve done release events in London, San Franciscio, New York, that have been worth the effort, but I don’t see them as essential to the well-being of the journal.

16 - How do you utilize the internet, if at all, to further your goals?

Firewheel’s website (http://firewheel-editions.org) has been a great part of our ability to succeed financially (read as: “remain afloat”), and we’ve been extremely lucky to have the help of two webmasters, first Michael Puttonen and now Tom Nackid, who’ve done great work for free or almost free. Our direct sales through the web site have saved us tons of money in commissions to re-sellers. So, all you readers out there, remember—you do a publisher a great favour when you order from them directly!

17 - Do you take submissions? If so, what aren't you looking for?

Of course we do. For Sentence, we’re not looking for verse, free verse, or stories. Only prose poems and essays related to prose poetry. For Kugelmass, we’re only looking for stories and essays—damned funny ones. Firewheel is currently reading manuscripts only for the Firewheel Chapbook Award and the Sentence Book Award, but will open up at a later date for general submissions.

18 - Tell me about three of your most recent titles, and why they're special.

Had Slaves, by Catherine Sasanov. A book of tightly composed poems based on the poet’s research into her ancestors’ slaveholding. Addresses this complex subject in a way no book ever has, both factually based and personally revealing.

The Important Thing Is… Card Game, by Marjorie Tesser. It’s a game! It’s a book! It’s both! As Bob Holman says, it’s “a riot, a concept, a poem you can play and play with. Beginning from comments solicited at a Suggestion Box at the Bowery Poetry Club, using those metapoems to conceive both the book-as-card-game motif (roll over, Surrealism!) and the fill-in-the-blanks of the cards themselves, [Tesser] slowly builds a breathing inner life through the cards' seemingly implacable random chance operations. How she does this is how a poem works: machinations of language funneling to sorrow and joy, thrills, offhanded and wacky happiness.

An Introduction to the Prose Poem, edited by Brian Clements and Jamey Dunham: Provides a broad view of the development of the prose poem and offers beginning writers a variety of strategies that have been commonly used in the composition of prose poems. The selections is broadly international and ranges from some of the most traditional (lyrical) prose poems to the experimental.

12 or 20 (small press) questions;

sentence: a journal of prose poetics #7

I saw a wave of birds, clenching and relaxing like the breath of an accordion. It lasted for miles. I didn’t tell anyone.

I wished someone good luck without knowing if I had it to give.

(Meghan Horton, “Things I Have Been Doing Instead of Writing Poems”)
 

The prose poem has always seduced me—I find that the grammar of the sentence truly is glamorous to me. With the sentence it’s more of a losing myself in the balance of phrasing, in the geometry of making that balance fresh each time. I do find each sentence is exciting, even erotic. I always loved parsing sentences in grade school. I don’t do that now—though it would be fun to begin again. I relate to prose thoroughly at the level of the sentence, not at all at the level of narrative. I’m really a gentleman collector of sentences. I display them in cabinets.

I’ve been, over the past few years, very interested in watching poets experiment with the sentence, working my own explorations through them as well, triggered by reading poets such as Robertson, Lisa Jarnot, Juliana Spahr, Sarah Manguso, Margaret Christakos, Sina Queyras and Rachel Zolf. Reading this issue of sentence I wonder, if this is an exploration of the “prose poem,” I’d like to see more of the poets who experiment with the sentence itself? Still, for a journal of over three hundred pages, there are certainly many highlights, such as Ray Gonzalez’ “The Guitars,” that writes out a list of exactly what the title promises, beginning with:

When Bob Dylan unstrapped his acoustic guitar after recording a few songs for Blood on the Tracks, he forgot the two other songs he had been carrying in his head. When he picked up the guitar in the studio again, he wrote a different song that never made it on the record, though the two forgotten songs appeared on bootlegs. The last guitar John Lennon played before he was murdered stood against the cold fireplace in his New York apartment, the leather collar he wore on the cover of Two Virgins tied around the neck of the guitar. When Eric Clapton’s four-year-old son fell out of a 49^th floor apartment to his death, there were two electric and two acoustic guitars in the room with the open window.

An essential part of sentence’s mandate seems to be “features,” and this issue includes some seventy pages of new writing in a section called “Contemporary American Indian Prose Poetry,” with pieces by such as Orlando White, Molly McGlennen, Chezia Thompson Cager and others. As Dean Rader writes in his lengthy introduction, “Where Function Invents Form”:

What Native poets ask of genre is often linked to what they ask of language. For centuries, language and its power to transform, record, activate, and animate has been one of Native America’s most powerful weapons. That legacy carries over into poetry. Also located in Native poetry is an ontology of orality, which connects even the most contemporary, most postmodern Native poetry to its incantatory roots. So, moving from “verse” to “prose” can carry with it a number of different significances for Indian writers. It can signal the transition from conversational to ceremonial speaking, the move from chant to song, or even the visual encoding of a linguistic shift from oral to written discourse. “I have written what is called ‘free verse,’” says the great Kiowa writer N. Scott Momaday, “though to my mind that is a contradiction in terms.” Momaday continues: “I’m greatly interested in the so-called ‘prose poem,’ another contradiction in terms, but what I mean is I like writing what is essentially a lyric prose in which I’m not concerned with meter, but with rhythms and fluencies of sound, primarily” (Bruchac 178). For Momaday, prose’s proseness liberates language from the prison house of poetry.

Other highlights include LeAnne Howe’s “Note to Self*,” Paola Corso’s “The Laundress Catches her Breath in Ten Seconds,” Jen Bartman’s lovely and heart-rendering “Dear Sesame Workshop,” (a must read), Rachel Loden’s “The Emperor of Heaven” and Orlando White’s “b,” as well as James Michael Robbins’ piece, that reads in full:


A Merry Little Christmas
At my uncle’s house for the holidays, surrounded by kin, the old grandfather chose me for his story, perhaps because I chose to listen to him yearning for his lost wife, how in the end she lay on the bed, her eyes wild, and told him to take care of her little dog because she loved it so, and then she was gone, her feet, he said, already turning black, and afterward I thought of him and the little dog wearily walking the empty house in the short time left to them, how what we give and receive is left behind and comes to mean almost nothing.

sentence: a journal of prose poetics

My father liked a bad joke
with a Japanese prisoner
over a makeshift fire
better than his own barrack.

He never spoke
of the celebrated
Daibutsu Buddha.

New Year after the Emperor’s surrender, on the Nara to Osaka train. My father strikes up a conversation, in pidgin, with a Japanese couple, smokes cigarettes with them, jokes with their little boy. Hands him a chocolate bar like he’s bucking for “B” battery’s Good Samaritan Medal. God knows he’s grateful there was no landing, as planned, on southern Honshu, with him on the front line and 90 percent casualties a “given.” Nineteen at the time, he only wants to go home to York, Pennsylvania, teach high school history, watch Laurel and Hardy at the Saturday matinee. He believes in the Emerson Emerson would have him believe, and as luck would have it, is one of the few Gis in the 368th field artillery who wouldn’t have a go with her when the husband grins and says to him “My wifu…you pom-pom,” grinding his right fist in his left hand so my father cannot take his meaning wrong. (Steve Myers, “Haibun for Smoke and Fog,” Sentence #5)

Lately I’ve been fortunate enough to go through five of the first six issues of the annual sentence: a journal of prose poetics published by firewheel editions out of Western Connecticut State University in Danbury, Connecticut, and edited by Brian Clemens. As the back cover states, one of the objectives of the journal is, along with continuing the previous work started by Peter Johnson’s The Prose Poem: an International Journal, to “publish work that extends our conception of what the ‘prose poem’ is or can be.” I’m intrigued by this, since the category of “prose poem” seems far more prevalent in American writing than it does in Canadian (although note the pieces in issue four by Ottawa-born Margaret Atwood). Could this simply because the movement here hasn’t been tracked? Each issue reads almost like a complete unit, publishing new writing that move into a range of what the “prose poem” could be, being far more than a poem without line breaks (for example). Is this what David W. McFadden or Stuart Ross would be doing if they were American writers? I know Gary Barwin has certainly done some interesting pieces here and there, and I’m sure I could think of plenty of other examples of Canadians working the same if I really thought about it. The piece above, for example, reminds of some exceptional haibun done by Fred Wah and bpNichol. As Johnson himself writes in his introduction to the fourth issue of sentence:

Thirteen years ago, I couldn’t give away a copy of The Prose Poem: An International Journal, and very few books of prose poetry were being published. Those of us who were writing those unpublished books used to share rejection letters, rating them according to levels of stupidity. But things have changed. Last year two first books of prose poems received, respectively, the Walt Whitman Award and the Agnes Lynch Starrett Prize; and three out of the last give James Laughlin Award winners were books that consisted mostly, or exclusively, of prose poems. Nowadays, it’s hard to find a book of poetry that doesn’t include a prose poem or two. The recent rise of the prose poem is the best and worst thing that has happened to American poetry. The best because poets now feel comfortable moving between prose and verse, the worst because prose poems are multiplying faster than cockroaches, and, in this respect, quantity doesn’t equal quality. Maybe this proliferation of prose poetry accounts for why so many poets are disassociating themselves from the genre by inventing more names for what they’re writing than by Book of Slang has for “penis” and “vagina”: microfictions, poetic prose, short-shorts, narratologies, and so on.

We might not have the same hold to “prose poems,” but I can certainly attest to the prevalence over the past decade or two to Canadians writing “short shorts,” “postcard fiction” and other small version of the same, coming often to the same conclusions but from the directions of fiction.

My mother told me if you bury something in the backyard, a toy truck or a small metal soldier, you will not find it there two weeks later. She said the sand is always moving, cycling—that the stone you find near the fig tree is from China or Istanbul. That the toy soldier will reappear 50 years later, slightly wet, salty. (Michaela Kahn, “If I ring my body like a bell of coins, will the shock waves of that sound cause oil rigs & volcanoes to erupt?” Sentence #6)

In the sixth and most recent issue, one of the works that really stood out had to be by Illinois poet Amy Newman, writing her “prose poems” as a series of cover letters, each written as though they were stand-alone, ignoring the rest, and have a magnificent blend of form and function. Does this mean the work she writes about (mentioned not here but in the other letters, supposedly sent into the journal for consideration) doesn’t exist?

Brian Clemens, Editor
Sentence
Box 7 / Western Connecticut State University
181 White St.
Danbury, CT 06810

6 October

Dear Editor:

This morning when I went out to collect the leaves from the back deck, the slope of the yard was unconvincing and nameless. How am I supposed to know enough to make something happen on a page that will convince me of anything? And then a red tailed hawk creased the eye vision and startled a show of darkish squirrels who were hunting acorns the big tree had lost from its moorings of fantail leaves. And the world parted its curtains, its scratchy and difficult weave, and a deer entered from stage left. Everything could have been still, and remained still, under a blank page of cloud and above the random field of unconcern that is where I live, and I would yet be there absorbing the about-to-happen, until I wrestled in my head with presentation, and the deer noticed my breathing; a pinioned ear swung brown cones and dials and the curtains began their snap shut. But the deer’s coat glossed like a television, and a kind of word appeared on its side, some series of symbols I could have used to tell you. My mechanisms clacked and bent but the pattern on the brown body didn’t speak in our easy and flattened alphabet. Instead, it showed glare and depth, something dimensional and respiratory, which music and a story behind it, the etymology of person meeting deer, it maintained several possibilities at once, and sustained—if I had had a Motorola V620 © phone with Integrated 300K camera with 4X zoom at the ready, the poem about the world could have been taken as it was rendered in that deer’s word-like body. Whatever it knew and showed in creamy gloss I could not cipher or translate or hold. It swifted with something like or disdain into the back of the world behind the house.

Thank you for your consideration, and for reading. I have enclosed an SASE, and look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Amy Newman